


Anchor

by Elisexyz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (individual warnings in the chapters), Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Making Up, Reunions, Worried Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Forty-five ways I found you.1. Snuggling into my chest, refusing to let my hand go.“If only the masses knew that the mighty White Wolf is a very clingy lover.”2. With a blush on your cheeks.“Not that I am not ecstatic to see you, but shouldn’t you be hibernating?”3. Angry at me, refusing to look me in the eyes.Ah, fuck, he really should have walked out.4. In a pool of your own blood.“Hewassupposed to be back hours ago—butmonsters, right? They are not great at respecting schedules.”5. Wide awake, unable to sleep without me.“All those times, when I said that you are indebted to me—it was only in jest. You do know that, right?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 99
Kudos: 298





	1. Snuggling into my chest, refusing to let my hand go.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this list of prompts](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/satansnumberonehooker/145759370358) I found on Tumblr. They were 50 but I chopped them down to 45 because there are a couple that I'd rather avoid. This first one is really short, but length will vary, and I will be adding tags both in the tags section and at the beginning of the relevant chapters as I go on. Hopefully I can write them all!  
>  So yeah, for now have some fluffy cuddling. Enjoy!

It’s his favourite kind of morning.

He can’t remember Geralt coming back from his hunt late at night, and unsurprisingly so: he agreed he wouldn’t tag along, but only because the alderman seemed ill-inclined towards witchers, which means an higher chance of being underpaid for the job and having to leave come morning, so it seemed smart for Jaskier to stay behind and earn some extra coin with his songs. He sang himself raw for his very enthusiastic and highly participative audience, and he enjoyed himself the whole time, but it still left him exhausted.

Enough that, he realizes when he begins shifting around a little, trying to fight off the numbness in his limbs, he barely kicked off his boots before collapsing on the bed and promptly falling asleep.

Geralt is lying half-thrown over him, with his face snuggled into his chest, one arm draped over him and one leg over both of his. He’s got a solid grip on Jaskier’s hand too, and it makes him smile that, when he gently tries to get him to let go, it doesn’t work in the slightest.

“If only the masses knew that the mighty White Wolf is a very clingy lover,” he whispers, affection spreading in his chest like a warm wave, big enough that for a moment he wonders if he’s going to burst with the strength of it.

He resigns himself to dying crushed by his lover, as it’d be rude to disturb him after half a night of hard work that he hardly received any thanks for, only wiggling his toes and stretching his free arm outside of the bed, satisfied that at least _that_ won’t be going numb. He can learn how to write with his left hand should they need to cut his right one off for loss of circulation, and he definitely doesn’t need his legs as much. Being snuggled by Geralt of Rivia is an excellent cause to lose his limbs to, in his humble opinion.

He brings his free hand up to Geralt’s hair, burying his fingers in it and hoping that his touch will be soothing enough to let him sleep for a while longer or, at least, gift him a gentler awakening.

In response, Geralt mutters something unintelligible, his fingers flexing in Jaskier’s hand before he draws it closer to his chest and nuzzles against his shirt.

Jaskier smiles so wide it might just split his face in half, ceding to the temptation of kissing the crown of Geralt’s head. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he says, softly, meaning it with all his might.


	2. With a blush on your cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the comments and kudos on the first ficlet <3 This one is a little longer, set pre-relationship. Basically Geralt is insecure, very cold and in need of some shelter for the winter, while Jaskier is just very happy to reunite with him earlier than anticipated. So I guess mostly fluff + the expected dash of angst that comes from Geralt’s internal monologue?

By the time he makes it to Oxenfurt, Geralt has almost managed to convince himself that he must have wandered there by complete coincidence. It’s just that he’s annoyingly cold and he’s been following the trial of towns that happen to be a little more friendly towards witchers and therefore more likely to rent him a room for the night, contract or no contract, and, well, once he ended up close enough to Oxenfurt it would have been rude not to say hello.

He may or may not also be hoping that Jaskier will insist for him to spend the winter, so he won’t have to either find somewhere else or to keep wandering as he does every other season.

His first stop is the closest tavern, since he’s in dire need of warmth and some ale to take the edge off. It might be stupid to be this uncomfortable, yet he can’t help feeling like he’s crossing a boundary: they never meet during winter, Jaskier going back to the comforts of Oxenfurt and Geralt retiring to Kaer Morhen, and even when they come across each other once the cold has subdued it’s never really _on purpose_.

Sure, Jaskier has freely admitted more than once to purposefully following a rumour he’d heard about him being around, and when they don’t meet for a few weeks after winter Geralt starts stopping in towns to check out the local taverns more often than he usually would, but _this_ —it feels like it’s too much, because he has no other reason to be in Oxenfurt other than seeking out Jaskier himself.

Seeking out _shelter_ from him, which might be worse: he’s disrupting their usual dance, and he’s doing it because he’s hoping he’ll be granted a _favour_. He’s never been comfortable with exposing himself that much.

As soon as he enters the tavern, his annoyance at the loud mix of voices and strong scent of alcohol and sweat quickly subdues in favour of overwhelming relief brought by the fire and the warmth of too many bodies stashed in one place. He pauses a few steps past the door for a second, shivers running up his spine and a strong urge to bury himself farther into his cloak to bask in the warmth barely kept under control, but it’s when he starts walking again, headed for the counter, that his ears catch the sound of a familiar laugh and his eyes soon land on Jaskier.

He has one arm wrapped around a woman, a good head shorter than he is, a grin spread on his face and a prominent blush on his cheeks. Geralt is too distracted to register whatever it is that he says to the two men standing in front of them: still like a statue, he has no idea what to do. He hadn’t expected to come across Jaskier so soon, though he should have figured that he wouldn’t be peacefully resting in bed at such an early hour, and—

Jaskier _somehow_ ends up turning in his direction, ever the one with the terrible timing, and his eyes immediately land on Geralt, widening in recognition after mere seconds of confusion.

“Geralt!” he calls out, the enthusiasm plain in his voice.

Geralt tightens his jaw, swallowing words that won’t form properly, and he doesn’t move.

Undeterred, Jaskier quickly excuses himself before rushing towards him, making his way through a couple of drunks, swiftly enough that Geralt notes he must barely be tipsy. He lands himself in front of Geralt with a wide smile and bright eyes.

“Geralt! Whatever are you doing here? Not that I am not ecstatic to see you, but shouldn’t you be hibernating?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, because that joke wasn’t funny even the first time he tried it. There’s a spike of fondness in his chest, though it doesn’t do much to make him less aware of how much he’s toying the line here. “I got caught up on a contract,” he says, gruffly. He knew he should have said no the moment he was asked, but the townsfolk had been desperate, putting together what little they could afford to buy his services, and, well, they were nice hospitable people who didn’t look at him with disgust, he couldn’t find it in him to walk away. “The pass closed, I can’t get to Kaer Morhen with all that snow.” Well, not alive at least.

“Oh.” Jaskier’s pitying pout makes his stomach churn in painful irritation, but it’s gone quickly, replaced by another vibrant smile. “Well, you can stay with me!” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Geralt tries not to sag in relief, hardly daring to breathe. He doesn’t trust his mouth not to get out a pitiful and disbelieving ‘Can I?’, so instead he raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“Oh-oh, yes, of course, this is perfect!” Jaskier all but yells, clapping his hands once and radiating enthusiasm. “There are so many people that I’d love to introduce you to, they must be sick and tired of only hearing about you from me—not now, of course, you look dreadfully tired, darling—” Without warning, he steps forward and cups Geralt’s face with his hands. He’s burning hot against his icy skin, and Geralt can’t help letting out a small sigh. “You are _frozen_!” Jaskier yelps, eyes widening in alarm. “Do I even want to know for how long you wandered around before you decided to head here?”

He removes his hands from his face in favour of taking off Geralt’s gloves, swiftly securing them under his arm and grabbing Geralt’s hands, trying to rub some heat into them.

“Probably not,” Geralt mutters.

“Yeah, well, next time just come here immediately!” Jaskier says, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he tries to warm up every available inch of his skin. “Would you like an ale before we head home? No socialization required, I promise—oh, speaking of socialization, how would you feel about being a guest at a few lectures since you’re here? I told you about this, remember? Oh, gods, you really are frozen, I feel like I’m running out of body heat awfully fast—so, ale?”

Jaskier looks up to him with expectant eyes, and Geralt just stares for a few moments, a little dizzy at the flood of words, though it’s not an unpleasant feeling, somehow. “I’d rather go,” he eventually says, because with the prospect of a warm bed and some peace on the table, an ale doesn’t really seem worth the delay.

“Of course,” Jaskier readily says. “Give me only a minute.”

He retreats his hands, giving him back his gloves and leaving Geralt helplessly clutching his fingers around them, and he heads back to his group of friends. Geralt hears him say his goodbyes, claiming that ‘his friend’ is too tired and they really must retire for the night, and Geralt avoids the curious stares, though they don’t seem particularly malevolent.

Jaskier comes back quickly enough, wrapped in his own cloak. He takes Geralt arm in arm, heading towards the door as he starts rambling about sleeping arrangements and how he isn’t sure how much food he has at hand at the moment because he can’t be trusted to buy as much of it as he should when he is so busy, and has he ever told him about that time he was so hangover he got lost at the local market—

For the first time since when he realized he wouldn’t be able to find shelter in Kaer Morhen, somewhere he has no reason to watch his back all the time, Geralt feels himself truly relax.


	3. Angry at me, refusing to look me in the eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a little Making Up After A Small Fight fic, which ends fluffy because deep down I’m soft. Enjoy!

Geralt hesitates by the door, something unpleasantly crawling in his gut as he presses his lips together, glances at the lute in his hand, remembers Jaskier’s hurt and angry face before he stormed off, and earnestly considers just— _going_.

But he can’t leave the man’s lute outside, someone would steal it and then Jaskier would be even _angrier_ , and his swords and bags are inside anyway. He is not so desperate to avoid this conversation that he’d consider renouncing to everything he owns.

He shakes his head, takes a breath and pushes the door open before he can think any better of it.

(Not his greatest idea, he realizes a second later: perhaps he should have knocked.)

Jaskier starts a little when he enters, turning to him for long enough to glare and then theatrically twisting his upper body so that he’s staring out of the window, his arms tightly crossed.

Well, Geralt could leave the lute, take his things, and go.

“You forgot this,” he mutters. He spends a small eternity awkwardly standing in place before he decides to step close enough to rest the lute against the wall, within arm’s reach of the rightful owner.

Jaskier turns to him then, unfolding his arms even if the still tense posture of his body doesn’t leave room for many illusions about his current feelings.

“Thank you very much,” Jaskier says nonetheless, turning to him with a smile so big and blatantly _fake_ that it’s somehow offensive.

Ah, fuck, he really should have walked out.

With that thought, because he’s an idiot, Geralt drops on the bed, leaving more space between them than Jaskier usually would, because it seems—kind. Respectful. He’s been making one mistake after another tonight, at least _this_ he’d prefer to get right.

“You’re angry,” he states, simply, because he isn’t sure how else to begin.

Jaskier huffs, avoids turning towards him. “I’m not angry.”

“You look like it.”

“ _Well_ ,” Jaskier bursts out, so loud and sudden that Geralt internally flinches. “Have you considered that _maybe_ not having emotions makes you shitty at recognizing them in others?”

There’s something ironic about how, every time, the reminder that _this_ is what everyone thinks of him makes something heavy settle in chest, opens a pit in his stomach and tries to push his face into a pained grimace. Coming from Jaskier, of all people, it truly makes him want to disappear.

He doesn’t protest, because it’s a fair outburst and there isn’t much he could say in his defence anyway, staring blankly at Jaskier’s burning eyes and searching for something to say.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” is what eventually comes out. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s mouth twists unhappily, he takes in some air and for a moment it looks like he’s squaring up for a fight, but eventually he deflates, hunching a little on himself like all the anger has been sucked out of him. “I was just trying to help,” he says, and it sounds hurt. “I’m _always_ fucking trying to help.”

“I know.”

And he does, he does know, it’s just—he was tired, tense in the crowded tavern and frustrated at the alderman that didn’t provide an even half-way decent description of what it is that he’s going to have to hunt, and Jaskier has already been talking _so much_ today—when he insisted to know what the monster was, forcing Geralt to admit that it could be a number of things, and then he proceeded to hazard a few guesses – a lot annoyingly implausible –, only to come to the conclusion that it’s absolutely necessary for Geralt _not_ to go alone since he doesn’t know what he’ll be dealing with and eventually begin to ramble about _how a bard might prepare to go fight the unknown_ —Geralt snapped.

Unfairly so, admittedly, but he was frustrated enough that, even after Jaskier stormed off, it took a while for guilt to pave its way through the relief at having been left alone, if still in hostile territory.

Still, Jaskier is refusing to look at him once again, an unhappy _pout_ on his face and his eyes suspiciously shiny—Geralt begins to feel a little nauseous.

“I know that it’s not— _easy_ , being my friend—” he begins to say, quietly, his eyes dropping next to his thigh, where he’s lightly grating with his nails against the sheets. He’s scraping against a small stain, though it will hardly come off. “I’m grateful that you’re trying,” he adds, because he _is_ , and if he doesn’t say it Jaskier might just stop. The thought is—unsettling.

With the corner of his eye, he sees Jaskier turn his full body towards him, and he automatically looks back at him. “You—” Jaskier gapes, eyes wide. “You do realize that you just used the f word, right?”

For a moment, Geralt only blinks at him, the reply a little too slow to register. Then, well— “Fuck off.”

He deserves it, this time.

“Aw, no, sorry, that was really sweet of you!” Jaskier quickly amends, smiling brightly and looking at him like he’s never felt anything but affection towards him.

Geralt huffs, and Jaskier’s grin only widens.

He slides closer on the bed, so that he can throw his arms around him, interlacing his fingers above Geralt’s right shoulder and tugging playfully at him, even as he receives a dubious look as an answer.

“Look at you, Geralt of Rivia, full of feelings for his bard!” Jaskier teases, light and joyful as any other day.

He swears, the man makes him dizzy with his moods.

Geralt rolls his eyes, letting out a snort. “I thought I didn’t have any,” he says, before he can think any better of it.

Jaskier’s face drops, and Geralt really wants to kick himself. For a moment, he looks mostly thrown and perhaps a little saddened, then realization hits, and he frowns. “I’m sorry.” It’s quiet and clearly honest. He still has his arms locked around Geralt. “I didn’t mean that, I was—I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s fine.”

It really is, he isn’t even sure why he brought it up.

“And, I mean, I _was_ angry, so—you were right anyway.”

Geralt snorts. “You don’t say.” Emotionless or not, it wasn’t difficult to figure out.

Jaskier looks thoroughly unamused. “Ah-ah, shut up—back to the most important topic of conversation, I apologize but I’m going to _have_ to write something about the White Wolf and his emotions for his bard—an epic ballad on friendship and heroics and dramatic declarations of loyalt—”

The rest of his undoubtedly obnoxious speech gets suffocated into the pillow that Geralt smashes against his face with the not-so-subtle intent of smothering him. The playful fight that ensues is filled with noises of outrage from Jaskier and attempts at wrestling him in a position of disadvantage, and Geralt’s smile doesn’t falter all the way through it.


	4. In a pool of your own blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I was going to write a bit of Geralt whump at _some_ point in this collection. This also goes to fill the “carrying” prompt for day 7 of whumptober, because I’ve been busy this week but I meant to participate, so. I’m starting here.  
>  Content warnings are just a canon-typical amount of blood and cursing I guess. Enjoy!

“He’s probably fine,” Jaskier says, shrugging as if for the horse’s benefit. Roach still doesn’t like him _that_ much, but he’s allowed to pet her without getting his fingers bitten off at least, which is turning out to be useful to relieve stress.

Also, now he kind of gets why Geralt has developed this habit of making conversation with her.

“He _was_ supposed to be back _hours_ ago—but _monsters_ , right? They are not great at respecting schedules.”

Except Geralt’s estimate of how long it will take him to be rid of this or that horrible creature tends to be pretty reliable. And especially so when Jaskier is waiting for him in the open road instead of at a nice, safe inn, because Geralt _worries_ , even if he’ll go to his grave denying it.

He winces. That was a very counterproductive mental image to summon.

Honestly, Jaskier is pretty worried too. About _himself_ , to be precise. What is he going to do, alone with a horse and not much weaponry for protection? If Geralt got eaten alive, there’s a good chance he’d be next.

“He’s probably just taking his sweet time,” he says, leaning in as if to conspire with Roach. “He saw a chance to enjoy some _blessed silence_ and he took it, of course. I’m not so cruel as to deny him that. And besides, if I went to search for him he’d probably kill me.”

And Jaskier doesn’t _want_ to be killed, he’d like it on record.

He’d like it on record because the fact that, mere minutes later, he is beginning his venture in the woods might be misleading for the untrained eye, you see. Someone might think that he has a death wish, but he’s actually just trying to get back his bodyguard before the night nears, that is all. He’s trying to stay alive.

(He also might be just a _tiny_ bit more concerned than he led Roach to believe. He only didn’t want to scare the poor horse by suggesting that her soulmate might be lying dead in a ditch. He’s considerate like that.)

He does find Geralt, eventually. At first, he sort of _misses_ him, among the mud and monster innards spattered all around—it’s not Jaskier’s fault, the man dresses all _black_.

It takes a moment for panic to shoot right through him.

_Oh, fuck._

“Geralt?” he calls out, making his way through all that shit, only paying attention to the way his poor shoes sink into it because it makes it harder to scramble in the desired direction as fast as he’d like. “Geralt?” he repeats, louder.

_Fuck_ fuck _, is he—_

Geralt turns his head to him when Jaskier is already close enough to see that he’s squinting, having the audacity to look annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

He’s using that exasperated tone that means that he thinks Jaskier is being a massive idiot, and honestly—it’s great. The best thing that Jaskier has heard in his _life_.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he mutters, letting out a relieved snort and forgetting to answer with something as witty as he’d normally like.

Now that he knows that Geralt isn’t _dead_ – _yet_ , at least – he allows himself a moment to evaluate whether he should kneel down in that uninviting, smelly mess, but, well, Geralt is still lying on his back, he hasn’t even pushed himself up on his elbows so that they can have a proper conversation involving eye-contact, so there’s _likely_ something wrong there.

Possibly starting with that enormous, gaping gash in his abdomen.

Great.

_Goodbye, pants, you’ve served me well_ , he thinks mournfully as he sinks by Geralt’s side, asking what exactly is wrong.

“I’m fine,” is the predictable and frustrating answer.

“Sure you are.” He snorts. “You are lying in a pool of blood, guts and mud, I’m sure you are _splendid_.” He allows Geralt a moment to clench his jaw and roll his eyes, hopefully getting over himself a little bit. “Come on, what do I do?” Jaskier asks then. “I didn’t kneel in this filth for nothing, you oaf.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Jaskier stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“It’s fine,” Geralt eventually grunts. “It’ll heal on its own.”

Jaskier blinks. “In how long, exactly?”

A pause. A very _telling_ pause. “A few days.”

He scoffs, almost facepalming to show the extent of his frustration, but thankfully realizing in time that he touched the filthy, idiotic witcher before him and that his hand is now covered in things that he wants nowhere near his face, much less his poor nose.

“So what, you planned on lying here for _days_?”

“No.” Geralt is definitely in _no_ position to sound so patronizing, like Jaskier is the one being unreasonable. “Just until I can get up.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to know how long _that_ is supposed to be,” Jaskier huffs, shaking his head. He glances at the trees he came from, trying to remember how far off from the camp he wandered.

He is going to have to carry that mountain of a man all the way back, isn’t he?

“Alright,” he sighs, resigned. “Let’s get you up, come on.”

“Hmm?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fortunately for you, you now have a generous and supportive travelling companion willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and carry you back to the camp, so you don’t have to lie here for who knows how long. You’re welcome.”

Geralt eyes him with suspicion, or maybe confusion, or maybe it’s just emotional constipation: frankly, Jaskier is too busy yanking him in a sitting position to bother deciphering it. The movement makes him grimace, for which Jaskier ends up feeling a pang of guilt on top of everything else.

“Sorry,” he mutters, keeping a solid hold of Geralt’s arm – or as solid as he can, given how slippery everything is – and deciding that throwing it around his shoulders would probably be the best idea. He pulls himself up so that he can get back down on a low crouch, to be in a better position to help Geralt up.

It's the best way, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t afraid that his knees will just _pop_ while he has to do all that heavy lifting.

Geralt helps, a little, but there is apparently something wrong with his leg: he’s not even _moving_ it, just dragging it along, rigid as a piece of wood, and Jaskier feels like he’s trying to carry a dragon on his back, which is unpleasant to say the least.

The walk back is entirely ungraceful, filled with panting – Jaskier, mostly –, grunting – Geralt – and a curse here and there – both of them –, but they do make it. Jaskier is pretty sure that his legs have caught fire and his back will never be the same after the experience, and he has this very unpleasant image of himself trying to charm a lady as a hunchback, but hey, it could be worse. At least Geralt is _conscious_. 

“I’ll be sore for a week,” Jaskier laments, as he helps Geralt down one of the bedrolls and he has to bully his muscles into counterbalancing, so he doesn’t fall on top of him. Gods, the _smell_. He’d give a kidney for a bath right now. “You owe me new clothes,” he adds, pointedly, once he can straighten his back again, not without a moan. “ _And_ a massage.”

Geralt opens his eyes to shoot him an odd look that might just be a poorly executed glare, but the only thing he ends up saying is: “I need my bag.”

“Right—right, let me just—” Jaskier quickly mutters, because those nasty witcher potions would probably be a good idea now.

Once Geralt has drowned a vial, he mutters a ‘thanks’ and gets better settled on his bedroll, closing his eyes and getting ready to rest like he isn’t covered in gore and mud.

It makes Jaskier turn up his nose, but it’s not like they can go looking for a place to get cleaned up _now_ , so he can hardly blame him.

_He_ is going to get changed immediately, though.

It’s once he has walked away to find something to clean himself with before retrieving his clothes and he finds himself with nothing challenging to do that he feels his whole being sagging, exhaustion making its way under his skin and the full extent of his worry crashing on top of him.

He thought he was _dead_ there, if only for a few moments, he went looking for him precisely because he knew that there was a chance Geralt wasn’t in any shape to come back on his own—and he had been _right_. Granted, he seems—okay, sort of. Geralt didn’t seem worried, he certainly doesn’t think that he’s going to die any time soon if he just headed straight to sleep without so much as a recommendation to make sure that he doesn’t bleed out, but—maybe he was delirious from blood loss. Maybe Jaskier should wake him up and clarify whether there’s something that he should be concerned about or not.

No, alright, he’s being paranoid. Geralt did say he’d heal on his own, right? So everything is fine, no harm done—well, no _irreparable damage_ done, at least.

Good gods.

“Yeah, see, what did I tell you?” he tells Roach, as he slides into clean pants, just because talking is the only way he knows to direct his attention away from his own thoughts. His eyes, though, keep darting back to Geralt. “He’s fine, what were you even worried about?”

Roach huffs, and Jaskier takes it as commentary on how full of horseshit he is – which, fair.

Once he’s as clean as he can hope to get under the circumstances, surrounding him there’s a silence that he cannot fill with too much chatter, not if he wants to avoid disturbing Geralt’s sleep, and he finds himself with not much to do. He sits, not finding it within himself to settle down and get some rest, exhausted yet still too agitated. Just staring at Geralt to make sure that he stays – relatively – whole, though, is not much of a pastime. And it’s _definitely_ not one that helps him calm down any, leaving him in a constant state of alert instead.

He ends up grabbing his lute, taking slow, deep breaths until he’s managed to will his shaky hands into cooperating and he can experimentally pluck a few chords to see if Geralt will rise from the dead to tell him to fuck off. When he doesn’t, Jaskier takes it as permission to start playing a light tune, letting himself be comforted by the familiarity of the activity. The lump in his throat shrinks somewhat, though he can’t quite shake the feeling that someone has swapped his lungs for a pair of huge stones.

“All fine,” he says, quietly, his eyes once again locked on Geralt as he tries to chase away the mental image of him waking up and dramatically choking to death on his own blood. “It’s all fine.”

Hopefully, morning will come soon.


	5. Wide awake, unable to sleep without me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, sometimes I write little ficlets, sometimes I write 2k words of working through misunderstandings LOL. Enjoy!

Jaskier is still a little mad.

He thinks he has a right to be, it’s not humanly possible to get yelled at like _that_ and not be left with some anger lingering afterwards, but it’s easily ignorable, with the way guilt is quickly choking him.

Gods, he’s an arse.

Which is not exactly _news_ , but—he hadn’t _meant_ to, this time, all these years, and that makes it _so_ much worse.

Geralt lost his temper today, which doesn’t happen nearly as often as people assume and did nothing to make Jaskier concede even just an inch, because the first time he laid eyes on Geralt he only saw adventure – at least, as soon as he realized who he was, before he was just a very attractive man brooding in a corner—a potential adventure in his own right, in a way – and the years did nothing to teach him to fear him.

He isn’t sure what turned their usual bickering to a full-blown fight. Maybe it was nothing of importance, because Geralt has been having highly annoying mood swings since that whole mess in Cintra and he was probably just waiting to blow up on him, but—Jaskier thinks he was boasting about how the innkeeper was unusually friendly, taking credit where credit was due, given that the man happily hummed _Toss a coin_ under his breath as they headed for their room.

Geralt doesn’t usually get angry at him for that, and Jaskier can’t really summon the trajectory that their fight followed, but he knows that Geralt thinks that he’s been using him just for his songs, that he protested that if Jaskier has decided that he is _indebted_ to him it’s his own problem and he can fuck right off, because Geralt has no intention of paying up, not slitting his throat for being insufferable will have to do as payment—Jaskier was very offended. He was offended and he grew awfully defensive awfully fast, shouting back at him about how much of a brute, insensitive asshole he always is, and he didn’t really—he didn’t stop to _think_ long enough to put things in order in his head. He just fucked right off, as Geralt wished, making sure to get the last word in.

Now, having undergone the torturous process of cooling down, having actually thought about what Geralt said—he feels a little like shit.

It’s been a _decade_ , and this whole time Geralt thought that his friendship wasn’t genuine, that it was only a business deal and there was an ulterior motive behind each one of his gestures.

It seems so _stupid_ to him, because of course that’s not all that there is to it, of course he enjoys Geralt’s company, of course he’s his _friend_ —Geralt’s reluctance to acknowledge him as such makes a lot more sense now, though Jaskier only wishes to go back to the sweet embrace of easier days, when he thought it was just an attempt at acting aloof, for show, out of habit.

 _Gods_ , all those jokes—they often bicker, they often poke fun at each other, and Jaskier—Jaskier is beginning to think he’s joked a little too often about Geralt owing him for making him known as something other than a butcher. He’s positive he did it when asking him to come along at the banquet in Cintra too.

At the time, when Geralt had accepted, he’d been delighted, he’d thought he’d only done it as a nice thing for him, as a favour—now he wonders if he didn’t feel obligated. If his joke didn’t lend as a joke at all and Geralt thought he was _actually_ coming to collect his due.

And, well, that whole thing turned out _great_ , didn’t it?

During their fight, he remembers Geralt saying that he never asked for any of this, that he didn’t ask Jaskier to follow him, that he owes him nothing, that he never _meant_ to be stuck with him. He thinks it might have been a little about that Child Surprise that keeps haunting him too. Jaskier, apparently in a self-deprecating mood, finds it in him to feel a little guilty about that as well.

It's not his fault per se that Geralt asked for the wrong payment, but—now he can’t stop wondering if he was only there because he thought he _owed_ it to Jaskier. Because Jaskier had once again dangled his debt right in front of him and reminded him of his dues.

Fuck.

He pushes the door open as quietly as he can, for what good that will do: Geralt probably isn’t expecting him to be back for the night – he hadn’t meant to be either, at first –, so any sound should alert him, no matter how insignificant to his human ears.

Still, as he enters, Geralt doesn’t move. He’s lying on his side, facing the wall, deliberately ignoring him, given how he has made no effort to let him know that he is awake.

Jaskier can’t decide if he is grateful for the chance to gather his words some more or if keeping them all in is going to make him burst.

What he does know without a shadow of a doubt is that he is not about to get on Geralt’s nerves even more by not respecting his clear wish to avoid talking to him, so he takes a breath, ditching his shoes and coming to lie down next to him – because they only have one bed and he’d hate to sleep on the floor, even under the circumstances.

He stays flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe evenly, to appear _relaxed_ , even with his heart hammering in his chest. He’s bursting with the need to say something, his hands itching to reach out and his muscles stiff at the knowledge that Geralt is right _there_ , possibly an inch or two away from him, and he _can’t_ touch him.

The floor doesn’t sound so bad now.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt suddenly says. It’s awfully quiet, but it slams hard against Jaskier’s ears anyway, startling him. When he dares turning his head, Geralt hasn’t moved. “I shouldn’t have said any of that to you.”

Jaskier feels a fresh wave of shame overcome him, because he doubts that means that he didn’t _think_ them, it just—it just means that Geralt would have kept quiet about it forever, accepted Jaskier using him as the natural state of things and never called him his friend as a reminder that they _aren’t_.

“Geralt—” he starts, turning his side even though he’s still facing only his back, still as a statue. He isn’t sure what he wants to say. “I’m the one who should apologize,” is what he eventually settles for. He considers asking him to turn around, to look at him, but—perhaps it’s easier this way. “I had no idea that you thought—” How does he even say it? He sighs, eyes closed as he shakes his head, tries again. “All those times, when I said that you are indebted to me—it was only in jest. You do know that, right?”

Geralt doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need him to.

He snorts, though he isn’t really feeling the humour. “Who am I kidding, of course you don’t.”

It just always seemed so _obvious_ to him. He’s never been a particularly _subtle_ person, he just—he often wondered if Geralt couldn’t read more than Jaskier was willing to risk admitting, behind each one of his gestures of friendship, but apparently he hadn’t even realized what kind of _book_ he was holding in his hands.

“I promise you,” he says, slowly, as reeking of emotion as he can make it. “I never meant any of that—as you clearly know, singing of your heroics helps me too anyway, it isn’t much of an hardship, and—and I _swear_ , I swear on my life and on all that I hold sacred, I _want_ to help you, I’d do it even if it meant getting chased out of every tavern I play in—I think you deserve to be appreciated for all that you do, and I am your friend—” He swallows. “Or—or I _want_ to be, at least, and if you prohibited me from ever singing a word about you ever again to a living soul, as the price for your friendship, I’d do it. In a heartbeat.”

He breathes in, his mouth a little dry, mostly out of nervousness than anything else, he supposes, and he can only lie there, waiting for _something_ , for a word acknowledgement, for Geralt to turn around—except Jaskier has never been particularly talented at sitting on his ass, so it’s with his heart still hammering and his hand a little unsteady that he reaches out, slowly resting his fingers around Geralt’s shoulder and giving him a gentle tug, an invitation to stop hiding.

He wasn’t all that hopeful to be listened to, truth be told, and especially not as Geralt tenses under his touch. He’s just about ready to pull back, when he feels him shifting and twisting, and then—then Geralt is facing him, and the room is a little too dark to make out much of his expression, but he knows that Geralt can see _him_ , so he pushes his lips into an apologetic smile, his stomach churning in anticipation for rejection.

“I meant all that,” Jaskier says, just to be sure, just to fill the silence.

Geralt stares at him for a few moments, then he nods. “I believe you,” he says, and the quiet rumble of his voice is the most beautiful sound Jaskier has ever heard, worthy of a song, truly. “I apologize for assuming.”

Jaskier snorts. “It was an understandable assumption. It’s just—” He swallows. “Ten years are a very long time for a human. I thought it self-evident that I wouldn’t have been spending so much of my life with you if not for the pleasure of your company.”

“I kill monsters for a living,” Geralt says, and though he can’t see them he’d bet his life on his eyebrows shooting up. “I’d hardly call it _pleasurable_.”

“Oh, there’s a certain charm to your heroics,” he waves him off, feeling the urge to laugh building up in his chest, relief already beginning to pave its way through everything else. Because Geralt hasn’t cast him out again, he seems to have accepted his words as truthful, he is still letting him lie in his personal space. “I’ll admit I could do without the monster innards, but alas, no one is perfect.”

Geralt snorts his scepticism, but he says nothing.

Under the circumstances, Jaskier should probably leave well enough alone, consider the fact that Geralt isn’t starting another fight as proof enough that he doesn’t resent him for the misunderstanding, but—who is he kidding, when does he ever leave well enough alone?

“Are we okay?” he asks, quickly, his tone a little too eager. “Because _truly_ , I had no idea that—”

“We’re okay,” Geralt cuts him off, and he thinks he’s smiling. Then, Geralt slowly raises his hand, brushing his fingers against his arm for a second. “It’s cold,” he says, a little tentative, and Jaskier might just start crying.

“It _is_ terribly cold!” he declares, not even bothering to hide his delight, and actually no, it isn’t, not for him at least, he’ll wake up with his shirt soaked in sweat in the morning, but—he can’t even pretend to care.

With a smile stretching from ear to ear, he quickly turns on his other side, scooting back until he collides with Geralt’s chest and he feels an arm coming to rest around him, his skin tingling at the contact way more than usual, his excitement and relief making what is a pretty common predicament, for them, into a whole new other matter. He’s just—so happy.

He hadn’t even fully realized how _terrified_ he was of losing him until Geralt soothed his worries.

Gods, this could have been such a disaster—if Jaskier had decided to get drunk and spend the night elsewhere Geralt might have decided to leave without him. If this fight had never happened Geralt might have kept going holding onto the idea that Jaskier never much cared for him, and maybe one day he would have grown tired, maybe he would have realized that he didn’t want to have to deal with any of that and he would have drifted away without so much as an explanation, and Jaskier would have spent the rest of his life longingly wondering—

“Calm down,” Geralt says, gruffly, giving him a squeeze as if to get his attention.

“Sorry, sorry.” There isn’t much that he can do about his body’s unwillingness to turn itself off for the night, but— “I’ll try.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier takes slow, deliberate breaths, trying not to seem too ridiculous as he does so, alternating between smiling because _Geralt is still willing to hold him_ and drowning in terror because of how _badly_ this situation could have turned out, truly, he was fucking up so badly without even _knowing_ it, and—

Geralt huffs. “I can’t sing you a lullaby,” he says, matter-of-fact.

The idea is ridiculous enough that Jaskier is abruptly pulled out of his spiralling thoughts, letting out half a laugh. “If you tried, I might just _die_ right here.”

Geralt drums his fingers against Jaskier’s collarbone, once, before he realizes he’s doing it and he stops. “I could tell you a story,” he offers then, nonchalantly.

Jaskier’s ears perk up. “You do realize that if you choose now to start giving me details, I am going to have to get up and write everything down, right?” Not that he would be opposed to that. If Geralt is in a sharing mood, it’s always best to ride the wave.

“Not one of those,” Geralt says, quietly. He clears his throat. “I was thinking something about my brothers.”

Jaskier blinks, wondering for a second if he didn’t mishear.

Geralt is—maybe _secretive_ is the wrong word, but he doesn’t talk about his brothers or Kaer Morhen much. Jaskier knows the names of the surviving witchers, Eskel and Lambert have been mentioned in passing, Vesemir has come up for his teachings, often in the muttered phrase ‘Vesemir would kill me’, but Geralt has never just—sat around the fire and told him stories of his childhood and family.

Jaskier got the sense that he’s protective of them, and it stung a little that, no matter how much of himself Jaskier shared, Geralt kept holding that piece of his life so close to his chest.

And now he’s—he’s willing to tell him about them.

“Oh, in that case,” Jaskier eventually manages to say, his stomach fluttering as he gets better settled, pressed just a little harder against Geralt’s chest. “I’d love to hear all about it.”

He feels him exhale, going a little slack against him, and then he starts talking.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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